


The Criminal and The Assassin

by ChiyohRising, nigellecter



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Meetings, Nigel in Tokyo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6132760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiyohRising/pseuds/ChiyohRising, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Criminal and The Assassin (Nigel x Chiyoh)</p>
<p>Chiyoh has been hired to assassinate the ringleader of a criminal syndicate. She begins working in a very private (and prestigious) Japanese bath house as a cover, knowing the ringleader frequents this place. A lot of meetings between different criminals take place at the bath house, which is how she crosses paths with Nigel. They both recognize there is something dangerous about the other, but don’t yet know what it is. Chiyoh hopes inviting Nigel to spend time with her privately will give her insight as to when the ringleader might visit the bath house alone. Meanwhile, she does not realize her cover has been discovered, and Nigel has actually been sent to kill her. Instead, over the course of the story they develop romantic feelings for each other. When Chiyoh finally gets the opportunity to carry out her assassination on the ringleader, it all goes wrong. Nigel ends up saving her, and they narrowly escape together, a criminal and an assassin on the run. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the places she had been hired to infiltrate, The Silk Lantern smelled the sweetest, looked the cleanest and felt the friendliest. It was something beyond all of this that told Chiyoh it was by far the most corrupt and dangerous establishment in all of Tokyo.

Well before she had made her introductions, it was clear people without cause to visit The Silk Lantern, had no idea what sort of trade it even was. The tourists assumed a tea house. To the tourists, everything with rice paper walls and tatami mats was a tea house. The expatriates were a little more hopeful. They guessed a pleasure house, the sort that catered to niche interests, as well as the usual ones. The locals were by far the most delicate in their phrasing.  _ A games club _ , was the phrase frequently turned, which of course, meant a  _ gambling _ club.

As Chiyoh discovered, The Silk Lantern was as much none of these things as it was all of them. It was anything it needed to be. And thus, there was only one description of the business that had ever been permitted within its walls.

_ A meeting place. _

It seemed an appropriate axiom, given the task Chiyoh had been sent there to do. The task that occupied her entire attention, every waking moment. Arranging a meeting, between herself and two people who did not wish to be met. Nor known. Nor found.

_ Not by people like her, at least. _

For, like the Lantern, Chiyoh also appeared beautiful and demure, humble and compassionate. And, like the Lantern, she could affect all of these things or none of them, to serve any end. Did it corrupt her? No. Corruption was an empty, clawing vessel, a spiral unto its own destruction. There was always purpose. Did it make her dangerous? Certainly.

Over her first evenings, she had made the right impression. Chiyoh had always been able to understand the difference between making the  _ right _ impression, and a  _ good _ impression, the latter being one that could set her new colleagues on edge, if she were too quick to match their skill. Instead, she made sure to set a poor copy of each task- straightening rosebuds, arranging sweet cakes on ceramic plates, folding towels. She came to learn there were as many private bathing rooms as those with any sort of table within the place, and these were by far the preferred venue for discussion.

What she  _ didn’t _ yet know, was how and when her guests would arrive. The names they would use. The services they would require.

…And how she would get close to them.

___

“How the fuck do you say this? Ari...gato?” 

Holding a rumpled, spine-cracked Japanese guidebook his associate had so kindly provided, the bridge of his nose pinches together, squinting at the unfamiliar alphabet and its pronunciation. 

“You’re supposed to say ‘ _ Arigatōgozaimashita _ . Try to say it faster with ease, they will like it if you pay respects to the elders, it’s their custom.” 

The said associate responds, it amuses him to see Nigel, who is such a formidable individual in the realm of corrupted criminal empire along with his lifelong partner Darko, stutter at the foreign language. His usual confidence-exuding stance slouched by the mere booklet. “Ah, you’re gonna be fine, just don’t fucking get turned into a fucking kebab with one of those katanas. They’re fucking sharp. And don’t ever fucking go to the restaurants and ask for more side dishes, they’re gonna charge you extra.” 

The flight is grueling fourteen-hour long. Without no translator, he waits for one of the few people who can actually speak decent English. One of the assistants who works at “ _ Shirukurantan _ .” Silk Lantern, at least that was close, ‘Shiruku-rantan?’ He mutters under his breath, his ears not having quite popped yet. As usual, the airplane food dismal, the first-class provided by the establishment simply horrendous. Even the fucking liqueur he quaffed down wasn’t enough to get him in quietude, the fitful sleep evades him despite feeling more than tipsy. Still not out of the lingering effects, his bleary eyes squint to register his name written in Japanese form. “ _ Naijeru-san _ .” The man calls out. 

The sun barely peeps out of the horizon when he exits Narita International Airport and everything becomes a blurred abstract strokes of pigments, whirling and whizzing by as the little cars on the tiny fucking streets pass. “Why the fuck are we going on the wrong direction?” Still not out of his jetlag and drunkenness, he fails to register that it’s just like in England, where he had been multiple times before to layover and take few days’ excursion to be on his usual business trips. 

As he had speculated, the establishment is effectively disguised as a tea house by the facade, it had been a gambling house full of addicts who lent money to continue to feed their addictions until they became bankrupt, or have to pay the debts with their worthless lives. He had seen too many of them and having killed many who had owed him money and double-dealing his ‘lifelong partners’ to sign irresistible contracts to rip them off of their lives as well as large sums of money, a cruel smirk flashes against the rolled open window. A lit cigarette poised between his lips, a hand caress over his few day old stubble. 

Feeling like being plunged into an unfathomable pit of riches, his mission with this particular trip had been befriending one of the most prominent Japanese ringleader of drug trade, just like how he had been known in what he considers his ‘native’ country. The notoriety of his name expanded to outskirts of Bucharest as the gutter king. The self-made, relentless and ruthless. With the eyes of an apex predator who owned the most clandestine establishment in the sector 1. 

Even looking up at the signs - he wouldn’t able to recognize Japanese Hiragana anyways. Registering rows of limousines already pulled in front of the traditional-looking house, he cocks his head, watching the Japanese man taking a bow to regard who looks like a lady in her fifties.  _ Intriguing _ , he mutters. Pulling the duffel bag over his shoulders as the other man gets off to open the door for him. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Tsuno o tamete ushi o korosu._

_The remedy is often worse than the disease._

Chiyoh did not often place stock in the sayings. Her culture was rife with superstition, her profession even more so. But her Sensei had been nothing if not a believer in providence, and here, in the quiet of the traditional wooden passages, such words rang truer than ever before.

There had been a flurry of activity at the _bandai._ That in itself was notable. Despite the size of the establishment, The Silk Lantern was a very still and silent place, and gave every impression of being a relaxing one. No idle whispers passed between the staff- communication was done through subtle hand gestures. Not only did this reassure the clientele that no secrets were uttered within the walls, it gave workers a means to convey information that may otherwise sound improper out loud.

This is how Chiyoh came to suspect they had arrived.

_Two men._ Yuka signed to her, the small flick of her fingers almost invisible within the sleeves of her kimono. _One, a Japanese national. You know his face. The other, an international visitor. He does not speak Japanese._

Chiyoh made no acknowledgement that it meant anything to her. Expressions of emotion were also frowned upon within the meeting place, which, in truth, worked in her favour.

_They are greeting Oni-Yōkai now. Then you will attend the visitor, privately, in the water gardens._

Chiyoh inwardly smiled at the use of the word _Oni-Yōkai_ . The Lantern staff were simply referred to as _Yōkai,_ which in English, had a similar meaning to _ghostly apparition_ , or _those who are bewitching and attractive_ . Their elderly Madame, who had ever been the sharpest and most beguiling of the workers, had taken the additional suffix of ‘ _oni’_ , or _demon_. From what little she had so far heard, Chiyoh understood the term was more accurate than one might first believe.

_Myself?_ Chiyoh made the symbol for a question, her gaze kept at her feet to indicate deep humility. It was unusual for a _Yōkai_ to even be seen by a guest within the first months of induction, let alone the first week.

_He does not speak Japanese,_ Yuka repeated.

Chiyoh gave a bow, lower than necessary, but Yuka seemed to appreciate it. In a rare break from formality, she stared hard at Chiyoh, then purposefully moved her gaze to a panel in the rice-paper screen. Then she was gone.

It was more than enough. Alone, Chiyoh padded across the mats, letting her fingers trace the woodblock-painted pattern, until she felt the small latch. Pulling ever so gently, she opened the barest crease between the panels, enough to see the entrance area. The men were exchanging their shoes for house slippers. Backs turned, she didn’t need a face or voice to recognise the Japanese national. His reputation spoke before him.

The second man was taller. She had never seen him before. And yet, she didn’t need a face to recognise the tempo about him either, the sort she had trained her whole life to look for.

It was him.

___

The unknown brings two strikingly opposite sensations - he had always coveted to be adventurous, fearless and confident. Always on the move as a vagabond all his life. The mere enthusiasm to find something new and refreshing his brain had him to move in his usual brisk swaggering and the shift of his hips, making firm and precise movements propelled his boost in confidence and his egotistical mannerisms. Though, the slight, almost imperceptible furrow of his brows confirm that he had been more than a bit anxious for him to admit. Eyes darting as the courteous, he would call it in the term of ‘chivalrous’ gesture of the man aids him to exit the vehicle, to get his head straightened. Taking an unnecessary swallow, his teeth gently presses against his lower lip as he takes a sharp intake of breath.

_It couldn’t be so fucking different than any other establishments he had been in._

Perhaps it was the language and cultural barrier got to him more than it was supposed to. With his head tilted, eyes narrow to take in the grandiose, multi-story ‘tea house.’ Looking formidable and overwhelmingly taller than he had imagined it to be, the vibe it gives is totally different from his own multi-faceted, multi-story club. Gaudy, flamboyant, flashy and full of eclectic people, solely present to relinquish themselves in the night of debauchery. Rambunctious music, along with DJs, The table booth full of never-ending streams of booze and cheap liqueur. He would let all the club-goers get the decent, yet adulterated coke, as on the most expensive and luxurious suite, he would be the one to make a multi-million Leu contract with some of the most notorious participants of the drug trade. Dressed like a devil with a kindling embers behind the devious pools.   

None of the skimpily dressed youngsters, with their heavy makeup, glitters on their bodies, boys with long hair, tight abs with a strip of bare skin revealing sharp, protruding hipbones. Kimono-clad, all traditional when it came to their attires. All he knows about the country is from the samurai flicks he had watched from time to time and he does love sushi.

His demeanor changes under the raw bodily reaction of fluttering heartbeat, growing impassive and sangfroid. His hazel pools brimming with sparks of embers as his back straightens once again. The Greek statue of a man with angular, exotic features taking in the veiled deception, about to infiltrate and befriend this figure of utmost importance.

“You would have to take off your boots, _Naijeru-san.”_

The man instructs him to remove his boots, filthy with grime and years of use.

“Stop with the fucking ‘san’ deal and address me as Nigel.”

Muttering under his breath, he throws the bag over on the steep floor and stoops low to unlace the boots and once he slips off from them, he carelessly tugs on the slippers, finding the pad a bit smaller against his socked feet. “I don’t give a fucking flying fuck about slippers. This pair is the biggest you have? Then fucking forget it.”

With a grunt, he picks up the duffel bag once again and hauls over against the broad shoulders. “Where am I supposed to meet this fucking client and you better have some sake, I’m ready and about to fucking crash.”


	3. Chapter 3

Watching through the tiny slip in the screen, Chiyoh became two people. The first kept her senses tuned to the scene unfolding in the entrance area. The second was aware of the empty passage behind her, listening for the smallest of sounds that could indicate another  _ Yōkai _ might be passing through. It was a risk, lingering like this. But her entire profession was a series of risks, and the more she could learn about her targets, the safer she would be when it came to their final meeting.

It was undoubtedly the foreigner’s first encounter with Ryo, the in-betweener. Ryo was a familiar face at The Silk Lantern, known for arranging introductions and smoothing those that went awry. He spoke both English and Japanese fluently, and was known for being polite and gracious in all circumstances. These were qualities that were highly valued in Tokyo, by the business and criminal class alike.

_ Naijeru-san. _

Chiyoh committed the name to memory. The most courteous form of address was always bestowed upon guests at the meeting place, though she also noted he had called himself Nigel. Western or European, she had no knowledge of the meaning behind that particular name- she had never heard it before. Such a question would be far too personal even under normal circumstances, let alone the ones she currently found herself in. Getting personal and killing a man were not activities that happily shared the same roof.

Registering his surprise at the ritual of removing ones shoes, Chiyoh estimated it were likely his first visit to Japan. If that were the case, he would probably be unfamiliar with the welcoming customs also. The more notorious the criminal he were meeting, the more lengthy the ceremonies that would take place prior to their contact. Not only was this a form of paying respect, but also to allow both parties to get a sense of the other and measure their trustworthiness prior to any trade.

“I shall have some sake brought to the water gardens” Ryo nodded, leading the way to the courtyards situated at the centre of the establishment, sheltered from the bustle of the roads at each side.

Carefully sliding closed the panel, Chiyoh’s own socked-feet made no noise on the woven mats beneath. The Silk Lantern served only the purest varieties of  _ tokutei meishō-shu _ , known in English as special-designation sake. Using the techniques Yuka had trained her in only days before, Chiyoh poured exactly 180ml of the rice wine into the customary  _ masu _ , a cup fashioned from a small wooden box. Full to the brim, Chiyoh was still able to carry the vessel without spilling a drop.

Concentration whetted to a fine point, Chiyoh left the interior of the building, the air warm on her pale skin. The courtyard had been fashioned to a traditional Japanese garden, combining the meditative elements of water, flowers and rocks. Ryo had left the foreigner at the centre of the stone bridge, the spot from which guests could best admire the overhanging willow and cascading stream below. It was dark, the lanterns making silhouettes of the trees. A shadow among shadows, she walked toward him.

___

More than relishing the wanderlust spirit of his appurtenances of his profession, the growing desire to take a well-deserved rest looms over his frame. As his erratic and nocturnal lifestyle proved, it was a nightfall when he had landed at Narita, which meant it would be his usual crashing hours back at home. With substandard airplane food, not enough to satiate his increasing hunger with only liqueur sloshing inside his empty stomach, the exhaustiveness settled like an invisible mold around his statuesque figure. 

“Oh, I apologize, the meeting will take about two hours and I have failed to mention my name. I’m Ryo Himura. I serve as the link between anyone who comes to Silk Lantern and mostly, a translator.” Nigel is about a head taller than the man who addresses him as ‘Ryo,’ who is impeccably dressed in dark gray suit with striped light gray tie. Perhaps it was meant for him to blend in to the background and the serene, earthy tones of the establishment aids with the man’s intent. 

On the other hand, Nigel is dressed in his usual tight-fitting short-sleeve shirt, collar undone, few buttons unfastened with a well-worn leather jacket, plastered along the mold of his reversed-triangle figure. Everything about him stands out in the midst of kimono-clad women and attendants, subtly dressed clients who had recognized him from the pictures. 

Lips pressing together to form a thin line, a roll of his eyes follows. Along with a long-suffering sigh.  _ Two fucking damn hours. I need a damn fucking kahlua-spiked espresso cocktail to perk myself up for that abomination.  _

Eyes briefly wandering around the trail of illuminating lanterns aligning the narrow corridor, he gets ushered to the courtyard. The warm breeze carrying the spring zephyr works in his benefit to arouse him up a bit, along with the replica of a wooden pagoda, attracting his span of attention just enough as intense orbs trail the length of the mock-up, standing tall and soaring through the sky. The commotion of the busy city-life blurred over with the gentle rippling of the man-made koi pond, full of lotus flowers and hydrophobic leaves, which makes the water droplets falling from the trail to bounce off. 

With a cock of his head, instinctively his hand reaches for the revolver shoved down the side of his hips, pressing against the sharp hipbone. With a grunt as fingers grasp around the handle of his bag, heavy with change of clothes, a backup glock, extra cartilages and a silencer. 

Idly tracing the gnarled branches of the willow and looking at the expanse of the garden, Arms clasp behind body just underneath the bulge of the bag, walking briskly as his head lifts, sensing a movement within the penumbra of the organic form, registering the change of negative spaces. The crawling form of a slender woman making the way toward him, holding sake. 

Circling a shoulder as his chin lifts, neck stretching as he feels the dewlap taut, along with the pin-up girl tattoo over his carotid. As if he had expected her to be there in the first place. 

Silent, he regards her with both curiosity and confident exuberance. The women is pale, slender, exotic and sharp featured, just like him, except his coppery tone of his skin blends into the darkness. Like a black leopard, his glimmering eyes are the only ones that reflect his presence.  


	4. Chapter 4

Feeling the smooth pebbles on the pathway beneath her feet, Chiyoh closed her eyes. She could hear the bubbling of the lotus pond on her left, a small splash every time a koi slipped its head out of the water. Above her, the rustling of leaves licked by a gentle breeze. The image of the man stayed with her even whilst she couldn’t see, an outline burned into the black. Eyelids flickering, she searched for the invisible details.

The way he carried his weight was balanced, like a fighter. There was a slight gauze of redness at the rims of his eyes, the endnote to a long and uncomfortable flight. He wore heavy clothes and a heavier bag, but his movements were not heavy. He was exhausted, but alert. As the impression took shape, a whir of brushstrokes painting patterns in her mind, Chiyoh became aware of something else. He was sensing her too.

The hem of her kimono grazing the step of the bridge, she allowed her lashes to part a fraction, taking him in. She had met many bad men. Not here, but in other places, other lives. Bad men typically looked within rather than beyond, blinded by the same qualities that fed their success. But here she perceived curiosity. As his eyes pooled over her, the tranquil garden seemed to grow in her consciousness, bleeding into the whole of her senses until all that is left is her and the man. She cannot look away.

They could have been in a forest. A jungle. Pulled from her waking form, Chiyoh knew for the first time what it was to meet face to face with another predator. She perceived herself as he would her- lithe and spectral, moonlight shimmering off the white embroidered gown. The emerald details on the stitching snaked around her in intricate configurations, spinning outward into the trees. She is tall for a Japanese woman, her short, modern haircut leaking around her angular cheekbones. Her mouth softly parts, an inhale drawn over the blush of her lower lip.

“ _ Konbanwa. No namae wa Chiyoh desu, yoroshiku onegaishimasu _ ” she bowed to him, then placed the delicate wooden tray and sake on the edge of the bridge. She had already been told he did not speak Japanese, and nor was her formal choice of phrasing easy to translate. But the welcoming traditions of The Silk Lantern required dignity before familiarity, and she would not utter a word to alert him to her relative newness to the house. “Good evening. I am called Chiyoh, and it is my great pleasure to meet you.”

In all other circumstances, she would not have given the target her true name. It had, however, been essential to use her name to gain employment at the Lantern, and if he were to discover it through other means, the falsehood might raise his suspicions.

“It would be my honour to walk with you through our water gardens, until your esteemed companion should make his arrival.”

Chiyoh found she was holding her breath. Not all guests were in want of company before a meeting, and if that were the case, her chances of executing the mission were made that much harder. But despite the fact he would not be leaving the establishment, and her eyes would be the last he ever saw…

…in this time, in this moment. She did not want him to say no.

___

After the blitzkrieg which rendered him incapacitated for months, he had grown even more alert. Leaving no stones unturned, his inveterate instincts honed and amplified. He had myriads of scars to prove, on top and contained inside his hardened flesh. Of course, back home, he wasn’t the most seasoned fighter nor had burly herculean build of a bodybuilder. Six feet of a strenuous person, with an intellect of street smarts. As unfamiliar and inaccessible everything is to him, standing on the most optimal spot for taking all the picturesque view in. It’s like unfolding the screens, watching the pigment seep and flow onto the washi, everything unfolding in an atmospheric deepness. A broad stroke depicting so many elements at once. 

Everything seems to suggest tranquility as the burlesque and provocative view of his own club diminishes back deep into his unconsciousness. The flow of the gentle stream, the whistling and sighing of the gnarled branches and leaves, his own slowed breathing. The lassitude of his body still there, he could feel his hazel pool grow parched, the liqueur effectively doing the job, perhaps more efficiently, as his body was still compromised and under the spell of his recuperation. Underneath the thin white fabric, he could still feel the dormant volcano ready to erupt, if he couldn’t control any paroxysms of intense emotions.   

The branches themselves remind him about the throb of veins, every inch of his muscle emitting high-pitched scream as his body had been paralyzed in an invisible mold. Becoming a fixture as he drowned in his own rusty, pungent scent of blood and abhorrent flow of purulence. Now the remnant is left in the form of equally distorted and jagged form, materialized and permanently stamped across the length of his left side. Still under the spell of a pink caterpillar, he blinks slow, without an intent to scan the woman’s form, he watches the shadow of her figure looming over his own. Crawling and stretching, dissipating as it multiplies under the swinging lanterns. 

Like ends of magnetic poles attracting, he can’t pull away from this enigma of a woman. Whirling eyes which seems to suck him right into the abysmal depth. That indeed is also foreign. He had crossed paths with myriads of people. Both unimpressive and passing. Merely acquaintances and knowing faces. Names didn’t stick. Too many Janes and Johns. 

A minute pinch of the bridge of his nose, followed by a cock of his head. In his observing mode. Everything becomes a white noise as he nods. He cannot help himself to bow back, at least what he perceives as one. All he could register out of that short succession of sentences is the name ‘Chiyoh.’ 

_ Can she speak damn English, is there anyone who can speak damn fucking English around here?  _

As if she had heard his words, she begins to translate the previous sentences and his lips finally curl up from the thinned state. 

“Ah, Chiyoh. Fucking nice to meet you too. Nigel. I am sure you’d know my name. It seems like I’m the only bloody fucking foreigner around here.” 

Perhaps this woman will cause a paradigm shift. Most modern-looking of them all, with formal eloquent speech and the beauty to support for it. Both grace and elegance presents within her. His hand sticks out, with a grin dipping one of his cheek, in an effort for a handshake. 

“How can I refuse to such a fucking beautiful woman such as you?” 


	5. Chapter 5

The English phrases felt strange on her tongue, like remembering the taste of some sweet cordial from her childhood. Chiyoh is fluent, but with so few foreigners to interact with, the sounds fit like an unfamiliar disguise, pinching at the seams. Like a wave breaking over the shore, she sees the fractured coil of his lips, the sign that he has understood.

And then he speaks.

As the richness of his voice collides with the fluttering song of the garden, it takes every fibre of her training to keep her face unaffected. Far from her expectations, there is warmth in his tones, a depth into which she peers. Below the surface of the intonations, she sees the man’s experience reflected back at her, a life of survival with his wits and hands. Like all who walk this path, he has not escaped unscathed. But the trials have made him strong, honed his instincts like a fine blade. In the wash of darkness, she raises her own sword to meet him, silver and steel shattering the serenity of her mind.

His acknowledgement at being the only European visiting The Silk Lantern rings true. Located in the historic Yanesen district, the establishment shuns the heady nightlife of the bigger entertainment wards. Strictly invitation-only, non-local guests are a rarity, and, to the less-experienced  _ Yōkai, _ even considered a novelty. The fact that he is here tells more of his formidable reputation than all of what her sources have scraped together combined.

Her attention fixed on remaining impassive, a smile cannot help but light within the coal of her eyes. Whilst unfamiliar with the ritual of bowing, his physique lends itself to the task naturally. The movement as exquisite as it is subtle, the flourish of his hand breaches the space between them. Chiyoh does not often find herself attuned to English words, but, ignited in the candour of his crooked grin, she finds one comes freely. Charming. He is charming.

Reaching her own hand, she guides her palm against his larger one, the soft pads of her fingertips brushing smooth over his knuckles. Her body temperature naturally low, the first touch sends a flush of heat through her pulse, fire meeting ice. She grips firm, gauging his substance and spirit at the mesh of their bodies. So much can be measured from a single gesture. So much can be made.

The surrounding lanterns puddle and waver, reforming into flickering neon streetlamps, the empty nightmarket where she had met him. The client.

_ Ito Azumamaro. _ He had muttered, quiet. It was a name that sent even beggars and street urchins back to the shadows. Their lives were uncertain enough without the devil himself evoked.  _ Pleasure is heroin, his calling card death. They say he poisons one in every hundred ounces himself, some sacrifice to whatever chaos he worships. _

If the information marked her, Chiyoh would never show it.

_ He’s got the dealers spooked. The buyers spooked. The whole market’s come to a standstill. And now he wants to play across Eastern Europe. Add Romania to his circle. _

She had plugged the USB drive into her laptop later that night, one grainy photograph of Ito Azumamaro after the next. And only one of the Romanian man.

_ The deal cannot happen, Chiyoh. _

In place of the pixelated image, the man now stands in the flesh. The man who extended her such compliments and courtesy, rough fingers wrapped tight around her own.

“The honour is all mine, Nigel.”

Inspired by the Western greeting custom, her thoughts alight on further gestures of welcome. As the energy of their handshake suffuses, she reaches for the sake, venturing an idea. There are two small drinking vessels, one only intended as a refill for the main cup. Offering the more generous serve to Nigel, she gently raises the other in a toast, pausing in the echo of his sparkling eyes.

“It is not every day I greet someone as striking as you…” the sincerity comes surprisingly easily, and she recollects her bearings. “Let us drink to us, on this beautiful night. And to the success of your plans.”

_ And mine… _ the client’s whisper interjects.

____

His head moving like a slow moving pendulum, he had faintly remembered the bow of the head meant exposing of his most vulnerable spot to the one he is acknowledging. That mere string of thought passing through his brain sends him a shivering lick along his spine. Never in his life, had he bowed or partaken in genuflection in reverence. Most definitely, that would be the prominent reason why he had been adamant to not conform to the standards of this widespread practice. The only individual he would pay high esteem and reverence is  _ himself _ . 

At least he knows this much, from more of his associate’s ‘valuable lessons’ on ‘how to behave like a decent, tolerable human being.’ All in all, the courteous gesture translates to be an extremely complex and convoluted etiquette. This kind of conformity and congruity of everything all put down to sleep, he doesn’t confine himself in the act. A grandiose and self-assured thought of he is above the law deeply ingrained in every cell of his blood. 

Despite his soaring egocentricity, he could feel his facade crumble as he takes her in further, he could feel the cold and collected frontier he always puts along with his outwardly gesticulation immediately beginning to disintegrate. The fortified walls of steel and stone turning instantly into a glass castle built on sand. No amount of effort on his end, the carefully constructed visage he puts up whenever he tries to get the lowdown of the business and exclusive transactions. All the enchanting sensation swirls like constellations of stars, propelled by their mingling aura and whirling like Ferris wheels in his viewfinder.

He feels like he’s hurtling through the blackness and the coldness of outer space without a proper equipment. The plunging puddle of her inky eyes, blacker than the saturated ink of the lantern. 

Senses honed, the droplets becoming streams again, the breeze sighing and licking over his expanse of neck, a faint sheen of sweat accentuating the character-defining pin-up girl tattoo. In the silence of his skin and bones, his all-encompassing pool gazes with both molasses and whiskey. Dulcet sweet, softness exuding as well as there’s an undertone of caustic bite behind them, like poised daggers. 

Without grazing the outwardly surface, he would not know if she is venomous. One infinitesimal drop of her persona of an enchantress and a seductress will drop him dead before even hitting the ground. With an equally firm squeeze as he reciprocates, her hands are cold against his warmth, the aura transferring and spinning to wrap around both of them.  

The survival of the fittest. He has enough doubts on his side to not completely sway towards her side, although his defiant instinct screams otherwise. With the gentle brush of his digits as he retracts, it’s almost imperceptible, but if he wasn’t mistaken, he could feel that conspicuous callus, invisible to the eye. An acumen advantageous to his side. She is indeed someone to be revered, his well-respected equal. 

A faint curl of his lips radiate his face as he etches Chiyoh’s distinctive feature. Enticing, enigmatic, exotic, but most importantly, a sharpshooter. Her movements so innate like ebb and flow of the beating sea. Moving with unhindered fluidity. Sometimes crashing, tides colliding to consume everything whole.          

Graciously taking the vessel containing what he had asked for, the grin widens as his sensuous lips close in for the brimming distilled liquor. He doesn’t have to spend even a nanosecond to place her in the center of his mind, as her voice becomes something of a familiar song. 

“Cheers.” He slips before the sake acts as the flamethrower which solders and reinforces the last innermost layer of his raw caliber. He feels like he’s holding aces and he would strike it rich, breaking the bank as he secures the deal of his life.  


	6. Chapter 6

The weight of the vessel removed from her hand, she reflects his gesture, raising her own cup to the curve of her lips. Two figures on either side of the mirror, Chiyoh tips her wrist at the time he does the same, feeling the liquor wrap around the tip of her tongue. The sensuous richness of his spoken word heralds her consumption, her plunge into the fire.

As the fortification drains, so too does she fall. She does not scramble nor gasp for air. Seeing all that he is, his fearlessness and pride, she knows she would rather suffocate in these flames than paddle across calm water, forever thirsting for what she cannot drink. Bound to the service of her profession, too long has she shown her face to death, tasted the venom of her own bite. Now the ripples reach the sand, the serpent that eats its own tail.

Staring into his eyes, the arrow pierces her spine, the blow she never saw coming. Paralysed to all but his gaze, the world stops whilst the shadows move, silhouettes of two animals where a man and a woman once stood. Like the mating of two alphas, she feels her wantonness exposed in the flicker of her breath, her hunger to devour him and be devoured in return.

The last of the wine burning serene through her chest, her grip on the cup tightens, the sharp ceramic edge piercing a single bead of blood on her porcelain skin. Her resolve must remain. This man has taken shape as a leader, his purpose to bridge a powerful alliance this very evening. The wooden pagoda howls above them, the highest point in the garden. She now knew this is where Ito Azumamaro would seek to meet with him. This is where both men must die.

It had been a treacherous climb to the rooftop opposite the night before. The downpour of spring rain had made the interlocking tiles slippery, the black glaze repellent to her touch. But she had persevered, the supressed Remington 700 rifle strapped to her back, her body coiling taut over the pipes and ledges. It was the ideal position, a sheltered, unobstructed view of the open-air pavilion. She had concealed the weapon in the inner seam of the gutter, disguised and protected in a thin, textured oilskin.

At that time, it had been a guess- they might just as easily have chosen to convene in one of the private bath chambers, the steamy, darkened caverns in the bowels of the establishment. But there the long-range gun would have been no use anyway. In case of close combat, she had the armada knife strapped to her ankle, a vicious and precise blade that had quenched the motivations of many a wagging tongue or lecherous hand.

Tracing her thumb to the warmth of her mouth, she amended the trail of red before it could graze the sleeve of her kimono. With her opposite hand, she retrieved Nigel’s empty  _ masu _ , returning both vessels to the edge of the bridge. The stain of her lips still sparkled wetness at the lip of her cup, a shining crescent token of their unspoken union.

She danced a delicate step backwards, her feet finding their way across the river stepping stones unguided. Balanced and poised, she summoned a posture of revered invitation, an enticement and entreaty for him to follow.

“Some legends have compared the water in a Japanese garden to a courtier, the stones to valiant officers, and the pagoda to the emperor…” Her tone lingered soft, not for veneration nor fear of being overheard. As the inky lotus pond bubbled between her skips, moonlight slashed across the face of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, she knew.

_ Together, we would rule them all. _

____

The liquor reaches where the spirit meets the bone and he is by no means a connoisseur in the craft of wine brewing, but he can very well appreciate the utmost care and painstakingly hands-on approach the Japanese adamantly continues to practice in their traditional way. As his native country did with their  _ țuică  _ \- a Romanian distilled plum liquor he almost always consumes before every meal.

The distinctive fragrance immediately assaults the tip of his tongue, spreading radiantly all the way down to the back of his throat, the grainy and flowery undertone lingers like the most complex floral perfume. It’s trenchant enough to blend in with his characteristic scents; the faint, yet pervasive waxy scent of the nicotine from years of smoking, the burnt, corrosive note of the gunpowder, the intoxicating amalgamation of musk and to top it off, the ring of sheen from his glistening skin. 

More than the imminent trade he could smell in the saccharine and moist air, he loses himself in  _ her _ . At the same time, he doesn’t feel lost at the same time -  _ it’s good to be lost in the right direction _ .   

The pinnacle of both aromatic package and the presence alone. The aftermath of the taste matches his underlying persona, complex, gentle yet potent when it can be and mostly, quiet. The lingering presence of the workplace completely having receded in the most furthest room of his mind, the clamorous cacophony is replaced by the sighing winds of the night. The serenity in his mind as his mind warps to drown the unsoundness of the psyche. 

The drink itself feels very much like the inmate’s death wish. The epitome of his preference in alcohol flavor profile. Heavy, full-bodied, with its brief tail of the burn. Where it enters the fore, the burning coal spreads wide to emit the misty fog, perturbing the tranquility. 

Of course, he has to put up a mask in the appurtenances of his profession. Like a galloping stallion, he only has a tunnel vision, hooves striking the ground at all times to remain vigilant. After diving head-first into work like a zealous maniac and desperately trying to mend the fragments before anyone noticed or cared enough, instead of fleeting kisses that scraped the surface of his hardened skin to search for ephemeral carnal acts, he earned himself a myriads of imperfections, driven by raw, animalistic, cruel streaks, exemplified by the gnawing of the sinew and tendons. The all-perceiving lenses as he soars to the atmosphere, taking in the aerial view of the accomplishment of his whole life. Once tainted with stifling stench of the viscera, the rotting flesh, the pillar risen from the treacherous grounds. Only to be tainted by his own crimson...   

Then, his piercing pools catch the inevitable trace of redness, tinged across her lips. A drop to the puddle. Almost unnoticeable, but like a predator’s exceptional olfactory sense, he doesn’t miss it. Instinctively, talon-like fingers clasp around her wrist, pressing equally imperceptible cut. 

Now there they stand motionless, the penumbra the only thing gracefully swirling across the floor as the sky explodes, the comfortable petrichor slowly rises, breaking the damp earth as he senses an imminent torrent. The night already had became a giant whirl of the most unadulterated pigments, those electrically charged particles striking atoms and molecules in the celestial bodies as the northern light unfolds like the most atmospheric and ethereal expanse of fields.  

The droplet multiplies to soak over his well-worn calfskin, then soon, it cascades over them and as if the bell tolls in the distance, the rattling lightning takes the root as it deepens all the way to the ground. 

_ “Ito Azumamaro is here.”  _

Ryo Himura ’s voice disables the bewitchment as he turns over the shoulder to the direction of his voice. 

“The meeting convenes in the private bath chambers, I apologize in advance, the wooden pagoda will have to be closed off for now.” 


	7. Chapter 7

It had been many years since Chiyoh had been taken unaware. Ryo was no master of secrecy, and yet his voice swooped around her like some spectre, shimmering to a ghastly chime. Ringing against the touch of Nigel’s hand at her wrist, the sound hardly felt real in comparison. The hold was firm, rough and yet precise, long fingers that could snap her in two. But, like the snake of blood that had caught his attention, she felt herself leaking and wrapping into him, some gentleness discovered in the chord of her veins.

She took in the newcomer’s face, his tones as calm and courteous as ever they had been. There was nothing about the change of direction to raise her suspicions. From everything she had heard and even more of what she hadn’t, Ito Azumamaro was nothing if not unpredictable. And yet Chiyoh felt a prickle travel up her spine, her pulse heightened as her mind rapidly untied her plans, roping together a second course of action from the sea of loosened strings. Reluctantly, she released from Nigel’s grip, lest he sense danger through the twitch of her skin. The connection remained where their bond was broken, a throb at her skin where his had brushed. A glance confirmed her bleeding had stopped. But her chest still felt like an open wound.

“Come,  _ Naijeru-san, _ we will collect your towel and bathrobe on the way.”

Chiyoh bowed low to both men “May the meeting bare you good fortune.”

The expression sounded far more ceremonial in English than her native tongue, but the formality helped to disguise her stirring energy, her anticipation for what was to come. As the figures departed, she let the whole of each possibility consume her, desperately seeking a window into Ito Azumamaro’s mind.

The opening came to her at the moment the shadows slipped out of sight. Within the confines of the traditional bath chambers, both criminals would have no access to weapons, nor accomplices on standby. Perhaps Azumamaro had given the engagement more thought than his reputation for recklessness would suggest.

_ Or perhaps _ , a whisper of caution spiked tendrils round her throat,  _ it is the reputation of the Romanian that gives him cause for caution. _

Chiyoh did not make to follow them, but hurried toward the smaller staff door at the edge of the garden instead. It were one of many concealed entranceways within the walls of The Silk Lantern, allowing workers to pass quickly and without notice. The passageway within was low and narrow, and Chiyoh had to turn on her side to avoid the splintered woodwork catching on the delicate threads of her kimono. There was far less attention to beauty and finishings where the eyes of visitors did not fall. Whilst it had been dark outside, the inner maze of the establishment was darker still, and Chiyoh had not traced the path to the Private Bath Chambers by these routes before.

Feeling the floorboards descending to a slope, she sensed her direction was correct when a soft heat began to drift between the very cracks of the walls, the steam of the boiler room. The flooring grew warmer as she travelled down further, the wood clammy with mildew and sweat. A scuff of footsteps ahead caused her to freeze. There was nowhere to hide nor turn, and so she affected an expression of calm determination.

Yuka rounded the corner, stopping on meeting eyes with Chiyoh. The hiss of the boiler interrupted any conversation they might have managed, so Chiyoh raised her hands first, feeling it was better to initiate an enquiry, rather than be questioned herself.

_ What are you doing here? _

Yuka’s hands flurried to answer, and Chiyoh noticed the empty towel-basket hanging at her wrist.

_ I have brought our foreign guest his towel and bathrobe. And you? _

Chiyoh did not think her colleague looked accusing, but neither was that the custom of the _ Yōkai. _

_ A complaint has been made about noise from the boiler room. I will see the truth of it myself before disturbing the technicians. _

Finding the latch at her left, Chiyoh opened the door, relieved to see the giant water heating mechanisms, all sorts of creaking and groaning sounds echoing around the chamber. If Yuka was sated by the explanation, her parting gesture did nothing to ease Chiyoh’s mind.

_ Good luck. _

___

His gaze, reminiscent of both the coiled cobra ready to strike and a tamed beast, with a disguise of a black leopard purring against the trainer’s petting. Both feral, also precisely and deceptively feigned with the innocence he lost long time ago. His still heart pumps with the cloying scent of adrenaline, pouring and materializing into a deluge into his brain, synapses firing, the slender fingers tingling with the anticipation. 

The beast of a man. With a built of a sumo wrestler. Ito Azumamaro would mark a new, uncharted territory of men Nigel had come across thus far. A one-eyed mongoose staring at him with an equal menace, intense and petrifying than anyone he had seen. His own bearing coal, rubicund to start a bonfire. A rarity to come across such formidable and a vehement of a figure. _ A snake to a mongoose. _ He can still recall the day, recuperating on the bed and looking at the rumpled, aged and faint form of the man’s figure, etched across the diaphanous film of his own hazel pool. 

He would be a kind of a person that leaves ghosts wherever he goes. Walking through individual’s mind, causing the wreckage as the castle built on sand effectively detonates and collapses with the strategic placement of the bomb. His own sinister maliciousness, the first gaze of a wild bear.  _ Their fate is sealed. Only raw, carnal, devouring of both of their carcass and psyche. _

The magnetic orange pool enticing anyone who would dare to look into those orbs, like torches flaming in the mist. The only source of illumination in the compacted forest and the marsh underneath it all. As his slithering togetherness slipping away as slow as to feel the every fiber pressing against Chiyoh’s frame, as his wanton radiance of an aura tethers into a ephemeral menace, they gleam like gold as he briefly gazes the reflection of his form. 

_ Distorted by a torrent of the dribbles. The meeting of a two giants, without any firearms and extraneous means to fuel their animosity if anything will ever go against the flow of the current.  _

“So we are, after all. Convening in the very place where the fucking meeting had been intended in the first place.” 

With an easy spread of his lips, the phantom of the touch is still along Chiyoh’s aura. He shall never forget that touch that brought them together in the serenity of the place. Having drowned in his own pensive churn along with the enigma of her enchanting gaze and the melodious undulation of her voice. More caressing and luscious than a gossamer of a silk. Every fiber etched across his skin. 

“Thank you, Chiyoh. Perhaps I shall come across your path once again. Indeed a fucking shame we would have to take our separate ways for now.” 

His words slip out effortlessly as he reciprocates the bow, more genuine and appreciative than the one before. After Chiyoh disappears from his range of sight, he clutches the lingering cloying scents along with the solace, becoming more of a phantasm. 

“Once you retrieve your bathrobe, you are to undress entirely and put on the robe. Leave the towel on the entrance, please.” 

_ As if he didn’t know the fucking drill.  _

Giving a frantic node and chucking off his leather jacket, he hands it back to Ryo, without even taking a sight of his presence. 

“Take a good care of it. It’s my bloody fucking favorite.” 

He could almost feel that veil of a mask, his means of disguise suffocate him. Like a ninja, stealthy and sneaky, he listens to Ryo’s direction towards the private bathhouse with attentive ears. Always an ear pointed on the ground, his mind swiftly whirls.  _ No weapons, flesh-to-flesh _ . It would be the most intimate meeting he would ever take an daredevil of an excursion. The drought of the rain isn’t simply not enough to decode the man’s skewed intention. 

_ Would he ever come to trust and bow to his presence to Ito Azumamaro like he did with Chiyoh?  _

Moving along with the shallow penumbra crawling and fluctuating along with the illumination from the hanging lamps, he abruptly gets stopped by a woman who he hadn’t come across before. Weary and a bit startled, lips part to register her slender form clad in kimono along with a bundle of white gathered around the crook of her elbow. 

“ _ Naijeru-san,  _ your towel and a bathrobe.” 

He could feel the lub-dub of his heart imperceptibly hitch and the veil of his consciousness curling akin to a burning paper, crackling and glowing, the ill-fated blackened smoke rising to breath into the ectoplasm of the misty steam. 

A brow twitches and the bridge of his nose pinches together as he stares at the woman’s back. He could already see the untainted white of the robe spreading with foreboding pitch-black and crimson. A deluge of crimson, gleaming like black opal as the etch of the gnarled lightning rattles the earth. 

_ Something is bound to happen in the confinement of The Silk Lantern.   _


End file.
